A Focused Life

In Memory of Paul Klingenstein, Pioneer of the Postwar Photography
Industry

By Stephen Hess

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In his 1967 best-selling book, "Our Crowd," Stephen Bimingham chronicled
the extraordinary accomplishments and disproportionate achievements of the
great German-Jewish families of New York. Paul Klingenstein, who died at
his Longboat Key winter home on January 5, 2003, is not mentioned. But he
surely would have been, had he and his family, like those described in BirminghamÕs
book, enjoyed a hundred-year head start on the promise and opportunities
of life in America. This is so not only because of the notable achievements
of PaulÕs own life, but also because, like them, he brought with him the
basic philosophy of Pflicht und ArbeitĐduty and workĐthat was the key to
his success. But PaulĐusually called "PK" by colleagues and employeesĐhad
no fortune upon which to build and no footsteps to follow. Each imprint was
his own.

Paul turned 18 on January 1, 1933, in the small village of Westheim (now
part of the not-much-larger city of Hammelburg, near the banks of the River
Saale). Four weeks later, Hitler came to power. PaulÕs father was a cattle
dealer in the village of approximately 450 people, among them ten Jewish
families. He was considered "the richest man in town," according to PaulÕs
younger brother Max, who adds that, for this tiny dot on the German map,
that really wasnÕt saying much. Nevertheless, a formal family photo taken
in their Westheim garden on the occasion of the grandfatherÕs 80th birthday
in 1927 shows a prosperous family group in Yontif finery.

Paul had finished his schooling at the Gymnasium with honors and had passed
the dreaded Abitur. He wanted to become a physicianĐ Herr Doktor Paul KlingensteinĐbut
it was not to be. With the Nazis in power, the hatred of Jews emanated from
beer halls, newspapers, newly invented radios and the brown-shirted street
thugs of HitlerÕs Germany. For Paul, the door to any career, let alone entrance
to a German medical school, was slammed shut. He recognized the threat early
and realistically.

Unlike the other members of his family, Paul saw America as his only opportunity.
Max, five years his junior, was still in school. Their parents, Jacob and
Cilly, were not yet prepared to leave it all: the farm, their home, the community,
their friends. And although life for Jews in German cities would soon become
untenable, the farm, providing as it did most of the necessities of daily
life, offered protection for a while. But there was no reason for Paul to
stay, and so in 1934, at age 19, he boarded the "Albert Ballin" in Hamburg
and sailed for New York. He had $30 with him, a few possessions, and the
beloved Voigtlander camera he had received as a bar mitzvah gift.

Although next to medicine PaulÕs other deep passion was photography, he
arrived during the Depression when one took what work was available for whatever
pay was offered. What was available was a job at $15 a week as a stock boy
at Brand and Oppenheimer, a textile company known for giving jobs to refugees.
While running errands to the companyÕs customers, Paul would pocket the five-cent
bus or subway fare and walk the 30-odd blocks to his garment-district destinations.
A nickel was a nickel and he wanted to save as much as possible in order
to join the Manhattan Camera Club. There he hoped to pursue his passion,
develop his skills and perhaps create opportunities for himself.

Meanwhile, with the situation in Germany becoming more impossible for
Jews with each passing month, the fate of his family was a constant concern.
His brother, Max, waited until he was 16Đthe age that would permit him to
work in AmericaĐto leave. When he arrived in 1936, he landed a job as a stock
manager with NedickÕs, the once ubiquitous New York hot dog and orange juice
stand.

Through a friend at the Manhattan Camera Club, Paul finally found a job
working in the darkroom at a downtown film processing laboratory. And to
hone his skills and to make much needed extra cash, Paul seized every opportunity
to freelance as a photographer at weddings and bar mitzvahs. When time permitted
he nourished his artistic ambitions by photographing on his own and having
the satisfaction of seeing his work published in the New York Post and other
publications.

PaulÕs skill and diligence did not go unnoticed. In 1938, the local Leica
camera sales representative recommended Paul to the owners of United Camera,
a major New York photographic retailer. He was hired to work behind the counter
as a camera salesman and started to "learn the business."

As the situation in Germany became increasingly ominous, Paul and Max
prepared to bring their parents to America by renting a small apartment at
161st Street off Riverside Drive. The parents arrived in 1938. Cilly Klingenstein
was reduced to doing piecework for a glove maker, while Jacob found no work
at all.

PaulÕs growing presence in the pre-war photo retail trade in New York
led to an introduction to Lou Moss, owner of the well-known Peerless Camera
Store near Grand Central Station, in 1939. Paul joined Peerless as a salesman,
but was soon promoted to buyer for the store. It was the start of a business
relationship with Lou Moss and MossÕs brother-in-law, Ben Berkey (owner of
a large consumer photo-finishing laboratory), that would span some 40 years.

With war inevitable, Paul predicted that photographic merchandise for
consumers would surely dry up. He set out to invest every available purchasing
dollar in inventory that would be warehoused and ready when needed. He also
expanded PeerlessÕ display and inventory of used cameras and accessories.

Following the outbreak of war, Paul attempted to enlist, seeking to join
the U.S. Signal Corps which dealt with all photographic operations for the
Army. The military, however, declared him "4F," after detecting the severe
hearing loss in his right ear, the result of a mistreated middle ear infection.
He returned to civilian life and to the Peerless Camera Stores.

For the balance of the war, the retail camera business survived like any
other non-military business, by making do as best it could. Paul concentrated
on selling what could be obtained and made the most of the used camera business.
At one point he was able to purchase a supply of lamp sockets for photo studio
lights. He brought the parts and other components home for his father to
assemble, providing the defeated man some needed work and purpose.

VJ Day came on August 14, 1945, and with it Paul, who had always had his
mind on work and duty, began to think of marriage and a family. A family
VJ day photo shows two couples celebrating the moment. PaulÕs future wife,
Selma, is seen smiling beside him in the photo but, ironically, her date
was the other man! Not one to dodge a challenge, Paul figured out how to
convince her that heĐa somewhat awkward man with a heavy German accentĐwould
be a better choice. They married in February 1947.

With the support of Lou Moss and Ben Berkey, Paul set up Kling Photo in
order to manufacture an advanced professional camera for Peerless. Named
the Meridian, it was to be an amalgam of the standard press camera of the
day, the Speed Graphic, and the much more sophisticated (but unavailable)
German Linhof Technika. Paul sketched out the camera, applied some engineering
and contracted with a Lafayette Street precision machine shop to produce
1000 cameras. Eventually 2000 were manufactured and sold. Although in production
for only a short time, PaulÕs Meridian "B" is regarded as a classic today.

But Paul had still bigger goals and, in 1948, he tried to convince his
partners Moss and Berkey to reconnect with the once-famous German camera
industry just emerging from the rubble. He made a pioneering trip overseas
to evaluate the situation but returned home disappointed. It was still too
early then, but in 1951 Paul left his position as vice-president at Peerless,
maintained his financial partnership with Lou Moss and Ben Berkey, and reorganized
Kling Photo as an importer and distributor of mostly German photographic
equipment.

Working from a small office at 235 Fourth Avenue and using camera shipping
crates for desks to save precious capital, Paul eventually obtained exclusive
U.S distribution rights for Linhof professional cameras and tripods, the
then-well known Balda amateur cameras, and the respected Kilar telephoto
lenses, as well as Ominica leather camera bags.

In later years, Paul added Rodenstock lenses, Gossen exposure meters,
Minox "spy" cameras and many other prestigious product lines. The crown jewel,
and his personal pride, was exclusive U.S. distribution of the German-made
Arriflex motion picture cameras. Arriflex was set up as a subsidiary under
the Kling and Berkey umbrella, and a Hollywood branch office was added to
serve its demanding movie industry clientele. Arriflex, still the standard
of professional cinematography, later became an independent company, though
it retained the financial backing and active participation of "PK."

Kling Photo flourished under PaulÕs driving energy. At the same time,
Ben BerkeyÕs photofinishing operations and retail stores grew with the post-war
and post-Korea economy and an explosion in amateur picture taking. Eventually,
Berkey Photo went public and incorporated Kling Photo. Paul exchanged his
Kling Photo ownership for shares in the public company and became president
of its new marketing arm. What had been Kling Photo was now the Berkey Marketing
Companies, relocated to a large distribution and manufacturing building in
Woodside, NY. "BMC," as it was known in the business, expanded rapidly and,
in 1961, purchased the Simmon Brothers business, manufacturers of the then
world-famous Simmon-Omega enlargers.

However, there were huge changes looming for the U.S. camera industry.
Although German precision cameras such as Leica and Contax were considered
the "gold standard," American photojournalists and combat photographers needing
equipment during the Korean War bought the Nikon and and Canon cameras sold
in Japanese camera stores. They found the cameras to be good and the lenses
even better.

In Philadelphia, Henry Froehlich, who also had sought refuge in America
from Nazi Germany, was convinced of that future and was building U.S. distribution
for the Japanese manufacturer of Konica cameras. When Paul approached Henry
about joining forces, these two businessmen and fellow refugees developed
an immediate respect for each other. Froehlich merged his business with the
Berkey Marketing operation and became PaulÕs second-in-command, replacing
him many years later upon PaulÕs retirement. The team was a "natural" with
PaulÕs "comfort zone" at the time clearly in German photo products and business
dealings, while Henry was skilled and adept at the nuances of Far East business
and negotiations.

In the Ô70s, convinced that trade breeds reconciliation, understanding
and peace, Paul and Henry established contact with Mashpriborintorg, the
Soviet agency that controlled camera manufacturing in the USSR. The Russian
cameras were "rough," but they were inexpensive and worked well. Paul renamed
the Russian Zenit cameras "Cosmorex," alluding to RussiaÕs newfound space
prowess. Russian technicians were brought over to service the cameras and
occasional visits from the F.B.I. were clear reminders that this venture
was slightly ahead of its time! Ultimately, the quality of the cameras, even
at low prices, did not meet the demands of American buyers, but the genuinely
warm relations between the two trading partners that developed proved to
be the enduring success of that venture.

Although Paul and Ben Berkey remained friends, their business philosophies
began to diverge over the years. When Berkey ended up filing a lawsuit against
Kodak, Paul felt deeply embarrassed. He had longstanding friendships with
many Kodak executives and great respect for the company. Unable to change
Berkey PhotoÕs direction, he resigned in protest from the Board of Directors
and, in 1976, retiredĐor so he thought!

PaulÕs children were grown. His son Jim had become the physician he himself
had once wanted to be. He and Selma greatly expanded their philanthropic
work, both in Israel and in their winter home in Longboat Key, making contributions
to both Jewish and interfaith causes. Yet, Paul wanted to keep his fingers
in the photo business.

In the meantime, Henry Froehlich and a new partner, Jan Lederman, had
founded FroehlichFotoVideo, following the failure of Berkey Photo. Their
new business offered a turnkey system to camera stores, permitting retailers
to transfer their customersÕ old 8mm home movies to VHS video cassettes.
The concept was innovative and successful, but the business model had a finite
life because of rapidly evolving technologies and a self-depleting customer
base. But then Henry was approached by a Japanese camera maker to re-organize
its struggling U.S. operation.

He and Jan immediately approached Paul to help fund this new business
and, hopefully, join them as an active partner. Well into his 70Õs by then,
but restless and still capable of the golden touch, Paul relished the challenge.
The three men established the Mamiya America Corporation, named for the manufacturerÕs
camera brand. The business quickly became the envy of the U.S. photo equipment
distribution business.

In later years, with the Mamiya operation hugely successful, Paul became
the businessÕs minence grise. He and Selma focused on their community involvement.
In addition to establishing the Klingenstein Chair in Judaic Studies at the
New College of Florida in Sarasota, they worked on interfaith projects in
partnership with the Roman Catholic diocese of Venice, Florida and were principal
contributors to the construction of their new temple.

PaulÕs funeral in Scarsdale and a later memorial service in Longboat Key
were attended by hundreds who knew and admired him. Among the mourners were
many who in some measure or other owed their start or success to Paul Klingenstein.
They came to say goodbye to a remarkable man.